The Circus
by Musings of the Pen
Summary: Hey, this is my first fanfic. If you want new characters, but familiar ones, look no further. Gaspode the Wonder Dog waits for you within! So please try this, and feel free to comment.
1. Chapter 1

Snow fell gently over the Discworld. Granny Weatherwax looked up from a battle involving the hem of her dress and a stubborn hedgehog and scowled. She could the new _thing _in her bones and she didn't like it. It reminded her of spinning wheels, and bubbling cauldrons, and cackles.

The Librarian felt it too, deep in the bowels of his library. It awakened the animal instincts inside him, fear and thrill and taste of blood.

And Sir Samuel Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork Night Watch felt it, though he wasn't aware of it. So he didn't know where the urge to strip down, to run through the streets, his territory, to kill any who trespassed on His Ground came from. He blamed it on the meat-pie he had unwillingly bought from Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, who firmly believed in organic meat, and, after all, every part of the cow/chicken/cat/unknown _was_ technically organic, right?

But this isn't about them. It's about a young boy and a talking Wonder Dog and slavery. And circuses. And a Dream.

It wasn't that Pocket Beedle hated animals. He quite enjoyed animals, especially mounted on a wall or braised, lightly seasoned with lemon and sherry. It was _live _animals that worried him. So he had started a traveling circus.

His mother, back in Ankh-Morpork, land of a thousand sewers, had once told him "Face what you fear, hold what you hate." And, thirty years later, he had followed it to the letter. He had traveled across the disk, gathering creatures from the Common Dog-Eating Canary to the Suicidal Grass Snake for the sole purpose to make their lives as miserable as possible. He held the lamb before dashing its head against the cobbles, faced the dormouse as it was fried in its own juices.

Then Beedle had met the acrobat-juggler Krop Bailer, who, remarkably, shared the same views with Beedle, except in regards to people. And now their troop , he Beedle and Bailer Three-Carraige Circus, numbered of seven miscellaneous animals, three humans, a dwarf, a troll, a troll who swore to be a dwarf, a possible vampire, and The Boy and The Dog.

Beedle didn't know why he'd picked up The Dog. He'd found Miles, the resident bear, sniffing at a pile of rotten…something on the side of the road. Then the pile moved, and turned out to be a flea-bitten, well, for lack of a better word, dog. The mongrel had sneezed and stared at Beedle. It wasn't looking at him in a cute, wistful, pleading fashion, because then Beelde would have trod the sorry mistake's brains into the dirt. No, it had stared at him like a hawk. A mangy, disease-carrying hawk. And it _never stopped._ It kept gazed right into Beedle's eyes, and Beedle could have sworn he'd heard":

"If yew don't pick me up, mister, I swear you'll find dog hair where dog hair shouldn't be. 'Cause I'll find you, as fast as I can waddle." Except, of course, dogs can't talk. But the red-rimmed, watery eyes were making Beedle extremely uncomfortable, so he'd picked the dog up, with tongs, and added it to their little caravan.

Bailer had found The Boy. Beedle was pretty sure The Boy had a name, but, honestly, Beedle didn't care to learn it. Naming means attachment, and Beedle definitely did not want to get attached to Him.

The Boy was runty, weak, and dangerous. He was dangerous because he _thought_. And thinking led to ideas, and everyone knew ideas were best left to the wizards and the scholars. No one would care when _they _died. And the worst of The Boy was that the animals _liked him._ Beedle wasn't jealous, oh no. But it was unnatural to see Him conversing with Miles, or The Dog. It was even more disconcerting when The Dog answered back, which It didn't, It couldn't, because that was impossible. Wasn't it?


	2. Chapter 2

Hum wrote down everything Gaspode said, editing out nothing. The boy didn't have the _grasp_ of curses, considering that every other word Bailer spat in was something even dwarf mothers would bar from their children. So he wrote:

"I swear, that bastard's as dull as a damn, fing, you know-"

"A rusty pin?" Hum said without looking up. Gaspode scratched an ear, releasing fleas, dust, and dandruff to float gently down to the tent floor.

The tent was a "gift" from Bailer, as were the rats, lice, and toads that lived in happy tranquility in the dark, dank folds, that even Charlie wouldn't venture into, if he could fit.

Charlie was Hum's second-best friend.

Charlie was a moose.

All of Hum's wordly possessions were in that tent. A small cot, a tiny wooden desk, a lamp with a half-cup of oil, a box of matches, and his wardorbe of threee outfits. Two stage costumes and the small black tunic he wore now.

"Could be, could be," Gaspode said absently. "Anyways, he's a bloody tick, tha's wot he is. He-" Gaspode yelped and scattered as Bedle entered the low tent, fingers in his ears and his eyes scrunched shut.

"Please tell me that..thing isn't talking." Hum could barely hear, as Gaspode disappeared:

"Sod you, mister."

Beedle unplugged his ears and glared at Hum. The young boy stood and bowed. Beedle waved a hand. "Pack up. We're leavin' to Ankh-Morpork, tonight."

"Yes, Mr. Beedle."

"Hmmf." Beedle noticed the little lack booklet before Hum could stow it away, and descended upon him like an overweight Angel of Righteousness. "Aha!" He grabbed the book and thumbed through the worn aged pages, tattoed with Hum's scrawl. Beedle couldn't read, which was a good thing, what with the wide selection of Gaspodisms on his "master." But he tried to look knowlegable as he flipped through. With a smirk, he slipped it into his large dull brown coat. If Bailer could only've seen the boy's face,

"No personal items allowed. We all share here, understand."

"Yes, Mr. Beedle."

Beedle left the tent, to step into the steaming mound of droppings left right outside the tent flap. He squelched off to his cabin, fuming as dog chuckles rang about the clearing.


	3. Chapter 3

"_Gaspode?"_

"_Hmm?" Gaspode squirms in Hum's arms so that he faces the boy. Hum is rocking back and forth on his little cot. He's maybe seven, maybe eight. _

"_Did the nice monkey-wizard send you? He promised me he would help me."_

"_Word of advice, kid. Never say the m-word around him. 'nfact, 's probably safer if yew din't use it 'tall." Gaspode shakes his back leg wildly. A colony of mice living beneath the chair hurry underground to wait out the snow. The youngest and weakest of them is caught off-guard buried under a mass of salty, oily flakes. Hum hears its pitiful squeaks and brushes the dandruff away, lifting the tiny, shivering creature up to eye level. He whispers to it, then gently lowers it to the floor. It looks up at him, dull eyes now aglow with a strange fire, whiskers twitching, then seems to nod, and scurries away, out the tent flap, and out into the cold, cold world._

"_Watchoo tell it?" Gaspode asks._

_Hum stares after it. "I told him to go out and _live_."_

The Beedle and Bailer Three Carriage Circus had been reduced to the Beedle and Bailer Two-Carriage Circus, owing to a sudden rock-slide high in the Lancre mountains. Hum, of course, was the only one who noticed Bill the gorilla hooting "Free! Freeeeeee!" as the carriage, laden with Bill, Opie the kangaroo, and Hatchet the albino zebra, skidded down the mountain side.

Bailer and Beedle conversed furiously at the fore of the caravan. Every once in a while, Bailer would crack his sharp-toothed whip absentmindedly, or Beedle would kick a passing Rockturtle of the side of the mountain.

Hum stared off into the misty sky from his seat atop the second carriage, his eyes glazing over. Besides him, Happenstance Rappenstein Kirkeldach Malor Ffleece the III, or Fleecy, as everyone called him, held the reins, talking animatedly with Gypsum the troll.

"She don't want any good old troll gifts," Gypsum said miserably. "All she want is "Gold, gold, gold" So I smash her over head wid gold, but she scream and tell me is bent an' ruined!"

"I'm no expert on dwarfish culture," Fleecy said, absently twitching the reins so that the carriage slammed into the cliff face, almost jolting the passengers of the side, "but I believe you're meant to _give _her the gold. That's what humans do, anyways, right, Hum? Hum?"

Gypsum waved a craggy hand in front of Hum's face, but there was no response. " I fink 'e's dead."

Fleecy shook his head. "No, he's fine. Just give him a slap."

Gypsum narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Won't dat hurt?"

Fleecy kept his eyes on the narrow mountain pass, jerking the reins just before they ran over Miles the bear, who had stopped to sniff a dangerous-looking rock. "That's the pint. Go on, he'll be fine."

Gypsum shrugged and drew back his quarter-ton fist. "Awright."

Hum flew off the roof, sailing over the caravan to land right before Bailer and Beedle. The circus screeched to a halt as the pair stopped and stared at the boy dumbly. Hum lay limp on the stone ground, one cheek a massive blue-black bruise and lines with scratches. Beedle kneeled down besides the prone body.

"What the hell…?"

In the back, Gypsum craned his head, trying to see where Hum had landed. "Was dat too 'ard, Fleecy?"

Fleecy stared straight into the mist-shrouded sun, not seeming to hear Gypsum's remark.

"Fleecy? Yore startin' at smoke."

"Filthy habit, never go near a roll," Fleecy said dimly. Gypsum waved the faint gray smoke from his friend's steadily-blistering face. Fleecy looked away and blinked dumbly. "What was that, Gypsum?"

The troll scratched his moss-covered head. "Dunno. I fergot. Summin' about Hum."

Fleecy threw down the reins. "Well, we seem to have stopped for some reason. I'll take this time to go change my suit. Every time I look, it seems to be smoldering! How odd. Must be the silk." He hopped down and popped inside the carriage.

Gypsum looked around in dismay. "Where'd Hum go?"

King Verence of Lancre massaged his temples exhaustedly. "And you're sure they're coming?"

Nanny Ogg nodded briskly before taking another swig from the huge canteen clipped to her considerable belt. "Lost a carriage, they did, but they're jus' enterin' Lancre, sure 's whiskey. Speakin' o' which, yew! Fill up me canteen with whiskey, good old whiskey too, none o' that watered-down horse-piss Magrat - oops, 'er _Magersty _- drinks, yew hear." The serving-girl nodded quickly and sped off.

Magrat sighed. "Oh, Nanny, I told you, it's not good for a woman your age to drink so much! Verence and I never drink, and we're nearly half your age!'

Nanny shook a hefty finger in Magrat's direction. "Th' day I stop drinkin' is the day I stop breathin', an' don't fergit it! Anyway, Granny 'n me figure they'll be 'ere by early tomorrow morning."

Verence shook his head. "The last time they heard, that troll almost burned the castle down!"

Anny belched hugely, flinging aside the remnants of her turkey drumstick. "Aye, an' that Beedle fellow wouldn't take 'I eye off poor Greebo. Poor thing was scared for weeks! Only brought down a couple deer and one bear a whole month."

"Quite," Verence said dryly. He clapped his hands. "Well, we must prepare for their arrival."

Nanny snorted. "Set up th' barricades, yew mean."

"Mrs. Ogg, while Beedle and his crew are here, they are my guests, and that means that they are under my protection." Verence glared at her.

Nanny's face was the picture of innocence. "Me, yer majesty? Why, I won't so much as harm a hair on their 'eads."


End file.
